Archive for the ‘couples’ Category

My grandmother, just before they burned her, said this to my mother: the only difference between them and us is they don’t know they have it. She gestured with her chin at the bonneted, jostling women, who far out numbered the men in the seething crowd around the stake. Her own unbound hair snapped in the wind as they lit her.

Afterwards my mother fled to this secret, wooded place that welcomes our kind. The curse they call a power spills like gentle sunlight upon the bears and other wild things that feed from our hands. The beasts of the forest are kin to us.

I had no father. She grew me, all on her own she liked to say. I never asked her for the truth. I knew he’d met the same terrible fate as all the others, the ones who came after.

We never knew how they found her here. They would just appear between the trees, squinting and searching, as if sucked from the great open spaces by a hungry wind. Raking her fingers through that thick, viney hair, she would sigh so deeply you could feel the cottage tremble. I trembled too. For them and for her. Go away, she would whisper. Not again, I would pray.

The gods did not answer. The men did not hear.

She tried to warn them. I’ll hurt you, she’d cry. Leave while you can. They never believed her. Princes and farmers, hunters and noblemen, even the friar thought he could save her. They never said from what.

Save yourself! she would shriek. They only chased her more.

She looked safe enough. Layers of violet gauze robes hung from a tall, fragile frame, concealing tiny breasts and skin so pale it seemed as if she might vanish at any moment. They must have thought they were chasing a fairy. How could they know what she was?

What they hunted, hell-bent, was their own annihilation. They would forget to eat and drink, or wash, or even sleep, and laugh in delight when she called it to their attention. See what you do to me, crooned the hunter to his prey. See what you do.

And each would whisper his dream of wholeness and nothingness, the dream we’ve been hearing since time began, the one that sends them from their churches and wives’ beds and into our damnation.

Did she love them? Almost, always almost, she once said. But as soon as I can smell the fear in them the feeling is replaced by something else, something I can’t name.

Sooner or later she would grow tired from the hunt. How long can you run from water when your throat is parched? But she never succumbed, not at once anyway. Breathless and laughing, she would toss the suitor her robes and the promise of tomorrow, disappearing into the cottage and bolting the door.

Witch! they would shout at her naked, fleeing form, angry yet smiling in a way I did not understand. Burn her! Burn her! the wives left behind cried out in their dreams.

In the morning, still naked, she would unbolt the door and open it wide, her dark hair coiling and writhing, lifting toward the sun. I could feel her heat from where I lay in my small bed. She would not close her eyes when she made what they called love . They liked that at first ( ah… spirit! ) arched triumphantly over her like bows and staring into the depths of what they fancied to be their souls. They always got to the point, of course, where they needed to close their eyes on what they saw. But by then it was too late.

We keep a little piece of them. Not because we are evil but because it is our nature. What we take are their shadows, their dark, howling secrets. If you’ve ever seen a squirrel skinned alive then you know what it is like.

They live through it. They go home to their wives, their hearths and their children. But a man without his shadow is never sure he’s really there. He looks at the ground and sees nothing beneath his feet.

The witch hunts come cyclically, just like the seasons. We know it is time long before we hear the pounding of hooves, the blood-thirsty cries.

The man who led the hunt for my mother was probably the most enamored of all her lovers. And the most tormented. He brought his wife, a small, plain woman with flat brown eyes. She’d known, of course. They always know. He’d offered her first torch when they found the witch.

There must have been forty men. You could smell the lust in the air when they stripped her. I sure would like a taste of this one before we cook her, one of them said as he grabbed at her breast.

Don’t touch her! I’ll kill the lot of you! screamed my mother’s lover, aiming his musket at all of them. The wife paled at his outburst. She swayed on her feet like a sapling in a winter wind. My mother reached out a hand to steady her.

A look passed between witch and wife that can hardly be described.. It flickered brighter than the torchlight in the air between them, a fusion of forces human shaped and witch radiant, so brilliant, so strong, that the men had to turn their faces from it.

She passed her torch to my mother, then gently wrapped her cloak around my mother’s bare shoulders. Piece by piece she flung the rest of her garments at the men, laughing and spinning herself into the frenzy that is older than time.

The men dared not say a word. The husband could not.

Embracing the stake like a lover, she wrapped her naked arms and legs around it as my mother lit the pyre. Not a hand was lifted to stop it.

Afterwards he carried my mother home, belly down on his horse. He married her and got his shadow back. It was said, for a time, that he’d never looked better. My mother, of course, died the death the wife had chosen for her. It was slow, and a terrible thing to see. First they bound her hair, then they put bonnets on her, and in time when he looked into her eyes he saw nothing. Nothing at all.

A witch without her magic is like a man without his shadow: useless both of them, and damned anyway.

4:00 a.m. – A lupus story because its about my severe allergic reaction to a lupus drug, said reaction being amplified because the lupus has joined with the evil allergy forces to destroy the effects of a drug intended to help me.

This has been the most miserable week of my life-..i have not been able to do anything but lie in bed with ice packs on me to relieve the itching – every itch inch of my body- I wake up every 1.5 hours bz of the itch – i’m on steroids and antihistamines- my face is puffed up into a balloon – my ankle is just fractured but still a pain the in ass, i have to wear a brace with sneakers- i only stayed in the hospital overnight because the doctors said they really couldn’t do anymore for me and it would take 2-3 weeks to clear up! they warned that the rash would get worse before getting better, but they did NOT warn that the itch would apparently do the same – it feels like tiny little ants crawling around beneath the surface of my skin, occasionally nibbling at my blood vessels -so at 8 am this morning Alph and i will be parked on the dermatologist’s doorstep, the doctor who saw me in the hospital, for a re-evaluation – no appointment, just begging and if that doesn’t work demanding to be seen.

Alph has been wonderful through all this. Poor man. We have a health crisis every year. Truly. But this was the firat time he had to call 911 for me. I was commiserating with how awful that must have been to hear me fall to the floor and then come running in to find me unconscious , staring blankly up at him as he tried to rouse me. He replied in his best John Wayne voice, but seriously, “A man does what he has to do.” For you kids too young to have ever heard of John Wayne, he was a tough guy movie cowboy, but a gentleman on the inside with a heart of gold.

He has never left my side. John Wayne bringing tea and cookies and pasta and comfort food and infinite patience..all with the swagger of his youth. Always making me feel nurtured and protected, even from a barrage of disease bullets. God I love this man.

1:00 pm – Well what’s wrong with me other than the madness factor that I expected to be refused to be seen? The office staff was very nice and so was the doctor, who none-the-less said he couldn’t do anything for me. It will take another week and a half to slowly improve and I’ve gotta gut it out. Oh, and the ice packs I’ve been doing have made the symptoms worse due to a rebound effect.

The worst part of it all, the absolute worst, was that Alph was in the examining room and I had to put a gown on and I felt so objectified, ugly, helpless, and embarrassed in front of my own husband when the doctor needed me to stand and take it down so he could see what was going on.

Why should I care, you ask?

Would you want your Hero Prince Charming to get a fast forward of your naked self under flourecent lights, which everyone knows age a woman’s body by about 20 years in the best of circumstances? Red spots bursting out of the pink blotches on your already sagging, steroid water weight skin? What if he was traumatized by the sight? What if….you know….?

True intimacy is achieved when you feel safe enough to be emotionally naked with your partner. You know your partner will not try to talk you out of your authentic feelings, will not say you’re “over-reacting”, will not try to fix it, and will not ignore you. You know you will be supported and validated no matter what you’re feeling and sharing, verbally or otherwise. You know you will receive empathy.This is love, pure and simple…

My grandmother, just before they burned her, said this to my mother: the only difference between them and us is they don’t know they have it. She gestured with her chin at the bonneted, jostling women, who far out numbered the men in the seething crowd around the stake. Her own unbound hair snapped in the wind as they lit her.

Afterwards my mother fled to this secret, wooded place that welcomes our kind. The curse they call a power spills like gentle sunlight upon the bears and other wild things that feed from our hands. The beasts of the forest are kin to us.

I had no father. She grew me, all on her own she liked to say. I never asked her for the truth. I knew he’d met the same terrible fate as all the others, the ones who came after.

We never knew how they found her here. They would just appear between the trees, squinting and searching, as if sucked from the great open spaces by a hungry wind. Raking her fingers through that thick, viney hair, she would sigh so deeply you could feel the cottage tremble. I trembled too. For them and for her. Go away, she would whisper. Not again, I would pray.

The gods did not answer. The men did not hear.

She tried to warn them. I’ll hurt you, she’d cry. Leave while you can. They never believed her. Princes and farmers, hunters and noblemen, even the friar thought he could save her. They never said from what.

Save yourself! she would shriek. They only chased her more.

She looked safe enough. Layers of violet gauze robes hung from a tall, fragile frame, concealing tiny breasts and skin so pale it seemed as if she might vanish at any moment. They must have thought they were chasing a fairy. How could they know what she was?

What they hunted, hell-bent, was their own annihilation. They would forget to eat and drink, or wash, or even sleep, and laugh in delight when she called it to their attention. See what you do to me, crooned the hunter to his prey. See what you do.

And each would whisper his dream of wholeness and nothingness, the dream we’ve been hearing since time began, the one that sends them from their churches and wives’ beds and into our damnation.

Did she love them? Almost, always almost, she once said. But as soon as I can smell the fear in them the feeling is replaced by something else, something I can’t name.

Sooner or later she would grow tired from the hunt. How long can you run from water when your throat is parched? But she never succumbed, not at once anyway. Breathless and laughing, she would toss the suitor her robes and the promise of tomorrow, disappearing into the cottage and bolting the door.

Witch! they would shout at her naked, fleeing form, angry yet smiling in a way I did not understand. Burn her! Burn her! the wives left behind cried out in their dreams.

In the morning, still naked, she would unbolt the door and open it wide, her dark hair coiling and writhing, lifting toward the sun. I could feel her heat from where I lay in my small bed. She would not close her eyes when she made what they called love . They liked that at first ( ah… spirit! ) arched triumphantly over her like bows and staring into the depths of what they fancied to be their souls. They always got to the point, of course, where they needed to close their eyes on what they saw. But by then it was too late.

We keep a little piece of them. Not because we are evil but because it is our nature. What we take are their shadows, their dark, howling secrets. If you’ve ever seen a squirrel skinned alive then you know what it is like.

They live through it. They go home to their wives, their hearths and their children. But a man without his shadow is never sure he’s really there. He looks at the ground and sees nothing beneath his feet.

The witch hunts come cyclically, just like the seasons. We know it is time long before we hear the pounding of hooves, the blood-thirsty cries.

The man who led the hunt for my mother was probably the most enamored of all her lovers. And the most tormented. He brought his wife, a small, plain woman with flat brown eyes. She’d known, of course. They always know. He’d offered her first torch when they found the witch.

There must have been forty men. You could smell the lust in the air when they stripped her. I sure would like a taste of this one before we cook her, one of them said as he grabbed at her breast.

Don’t touch her! I’ll kill the lot of you! screamed my mother’s lover, aiming his musket at all of them. The wife paled at his outburst. She swayed on her feet like a sapling in a winter wind. My mother reached out a hand to steady her.

A look passed between witch and wife that can hardly be described.. It flickered brighter than the torchlight in the air between them, a fusion of forces human shaped and witch radiant, so brilliant, so strong, that the men had to turn their faces from it.

She passed her torch to my mother, then gently wrapped her cloak around my mother’s bare shoulders. Piece by piece she flung the rest of her garments at the men, laughing and spinning herself into the frenzy that is older than time.

The men dared not say a word. The husband could not.

Embracing the stake like a lover, she wrapped her naked arms and legs around it as my mother lit the pyre. Not a hand was lifted to stop it.

Afterwards he carried my mother home, belly down on his horse. He married her and got his shadow back. It was said, for a time, that he’d never looked better. My mother, of course, died the death the wife had chosen for her. It was slow, and a terrible thing to see. First they bound her hair, then they put bonnets on her, and in time when he looked into her eyes he saw nothing. Nothing at all.

A witch without her magic is like a man without his shadow: useless both of them, and damned anyway.

I cannot even begin to describe what an experience it was to see the baby on the sonogram. I stood next to my son-in-law, my daughter of course on the examining table, holding her husband’s hand, as we watched in awe. That was no flat, lifeless screen as shown in the photo on my previous post. It was like an in utero video. At twelve weeks he was moving around, very active, and even sucking his thumb! There we were, three adults, dumbstruck. “Oh wow!” was pretty much the extent of the conversation from all three of us while the tech did her thing. My daughter’s “oh how cute!!!!!” periodically punctuated the conversation. She, as we all did, really melted when we saw the thumb sucking. That and our repeated question “is it a boy or a girl????” The tech kept demurring that she couldn’t be certain at twelve weeks, but finally, having found the penis, she announced “Its a boy!”

We all exclaimed in joy! My daughter was no longer carrying an “it” but a male baby. From the moment I heard it, I no longer felt merely the excitement of the pregnancy. Now he had an identity. I felt love for him . For that tiny little guy so active inside his mom. For Baby V, already named before his mom even got pregnant.

At twelve weeks, this baby was no future unknown. This baby was now.

And I feel so very honored that they invited me to participate in this intimate, joyous stage of their journey. I love all three of them with all my heart.

For my friend VanessaLeigh, who organized a vigil acknowledging the eve of the beginning of testimony regarding Prop 8 in California:

“Moral cowardice that keeps us from speaking our minds is as dangerous to this country as irresponsible talk. The right way is not always the popular and easy way. Standing for right when it is unpopular is a true test of moral character.” Margaret Chase Smith

People are writing checks for $30,000 -$50,000 up front to find a perfect mate. These appear to be primarily men, who in the stress of their jobs during this economic turmoil would rather come home to the comfort and soothing of a good wife than date around as in past glory days.

So while Wall Street is crashing, matchmaking is smashing. One matchmaker said that she’s recently had a 30 year old write her a $30,00. check up front “without batting an eyelid.” Another matchmaker said she recently spent a week at a luxury hotel in New York interviewing 20 women for a client who wanted to meet a graduate of the same Ivy League university he attended. The client paid more than $50,000. for the search.

Two thoughts occur to me.

1. I went into the wrong profession in terms of income.

2. Can you imagine how many hungry kids that money could feed around the globe? Is it just me, or is this decadent?

You know you’ve been hit when you feel stung, shot right between the eyes, express hurt, and the shooter retorts: “What’s the matter? I was just giving you a little constructive criticism!” This is their defense posture because now they’re feeling criticized by your reaction to their criticism. It’s supposed to mean they were “only trying to help you”.

In the first place, if you’d wanted their opinion you would have asked for it. These people have never learned the old saying, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” Worse yet, these are often the very same people who once taught us this very thing, but they think that because they’re our parents they somehow have an exemption.

Criticism is the expression of disapproval of someone based on perceived faults in them or their behavior. So constructive criticism is an oxymoron.

Destructive Criticism :

That haircut makes your face look chubby, dear.

Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to make disgusting noises when you eat, sweetheart?

Have you noticed that your gut is beginning to hang over your belt?

Honey, no offense but you sing like a baboon.

When are you going to learn that not everyone is interested in your long, boring stories?

You really over indulge that child.

You’d better stop feeding her so much or she’s going to turn into a whale.

When I raised my son he got his underwear ironed.

Why are you wearing so much makeup? Did they have a sale down at Macy’s?

Most of us have been victims of such remarks at one time or another. But you don’t have to stay a victim. You can have an a ready response in your arsenal should a shooter appear disguised as a friend or loved one.

The obvious one that I started with was “If I wanted your opinion I would have asked for it.” But that doesn’t fit everyone’s personality style. Others might include:

“Thank you for your kind, gentle, and sincere help.”

“You can withdraw your fangs now, I get the message.”

“I have a headache tonight. And I’ll have one tomorrow night too.”

“You’re beginning to sound just like my mother.”

You get the idea. Disclaimer: I’m not talking healthy communication responses here. I’m talking good old fashioned getting even. Because once in a while, lets be honest here, it just feels good to take a shot at the shooter.

Well, I’m still here…stroke symptoms morphed into a lupus flare…ok, I can deal with that, not so scary. Bed and tea and my laptop…small price to pay for some aches and pain!

Yesterday I focused on the spiritual aspects of death…and my not being prepared in that regard. But today I want to talk about my loved ones. Most of all my husband and children.

I can only write from a selfish point of view on this, so here goes: I don’t want to miss watching my children’s lives further unfold. I have no grandchildren yet. I want to know them. I want them to remember me. Yes…I want to live on a few years longer by having a place in their minds…. I want to see what they look like! Since both my kids are pretty much clones of their father, maybe some recessive gene somewhere would reincarnate my physical characteristics… Narcissistic, certainly. But truthfully, don’t most of us long for a genetic replica when we, or our kids, are pregnant?

Not so selfishly, I worry about them handling their grief. Oh I know, of course, that we all manage to do it. But…loss is not a strong point for any of us in this family. It takes us a long, long time….and I so wish I could spare them what God has decreed to be necessary…(There I go again. God certainly seems to be talking to me…however discreetly…)

My husband? Oh…this is a man who does not know who he is if he doesn’t have someone to give his whole heart and devotion to. He cannot stand to be alone. He would have to, HAVE to, find someone else to spend the remainder of his life with…to give that to… I’ve told him I would want that for him. But just between us….I don’t!!! I can’t STAND the thought of another woman having what was mine…his love, him….the thought of him holding and hugging someone else…I feel sick as I write this…but I also know he would NEED that….its not about ME anymore….but I’m just being truthful..we can all say what sounds like the right thing…but truthfully it makes me feel slightly ill….

Well, I comfort myself with the thought that if I were to die today, I would pass on to paradise, to the place where dreams are made…and later, my husband and kids would follow, and however they’ve gotten through their journey without me, none of it would matter in the WAY BIGGER scheme of things.

Well, I’m realizing that in both these posts I’ve pondered dying in terms of my relationship with others. Not a word about my relationship with myself. Guess there will be a part 3 coming….

Lord help me. He only gets sick once a year, but when he does my hero turns into my worst nightmare. I truly appreciate that he patiently takes care of me all the rest of the year above and beyond the call of duty, with my lupus and all, but BOY…paybacks are a bitch! He won’t let me take care of him… he wants me to take care of him…. he doesn’t need help…he does need help. I am trying not to get too close physically so I don’t catch his germs. He finds this to be insulting. When I tell him that I miss his hugs, he looks accusingly at me like its all my fault. I’m also supposed to be a mindreader. When I ask him if he’s hungry, he’s not. Five minutes later I find him cooking himself some soup and sneezing into it. Mmmm….yummy…He then graciously offers me some, which I graciously decline.. And, worst of all, he’s a VERY cranky patient who isn’t a patient.

And just so you know, Alpha Males don’t marry Florence Nightingales. Truthfully, I HATE being a nurse.

An elderly Cherokee was teaching his grandchildren about life. He said to them, “A fight is going on inside me, it is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves.” One wolf is evil………..he is fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, competition, superiority, and ego.

The other is good……… he is joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith. This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too.”

They thought about it for a minute and then one child asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?” The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

He reports that Amity Pierce Buxton, founder of The Straight Spouse Network, estimates that as many as two million straight spouses will, often suddenly, traumatically, and by accident, find themselves discovering that they have a gay or bi spouse. The article also reports that Joe Kort, an Imago therapist specializing in gay issues, has seen couples negotiate arrangements other than splitting. Some agreed upon solutions have been allowing one or both parters to have relationships outside the marriage, allowing the bi/ gay partner to use porn and webcams but not meet sexual partners face to face, or the bi/gay partner agrees not to indulge in outside sexual behaviors or porn.

What a tough and painful situation for everyone involved…particularly where there are children…or the spouses still love each other… What would you do?

A couple I’m working with blew me away with a DVD they have of a pediatrician who teaches mirroring to young parents. Mirroring is literally just that, imitating the communication of the child so that he or she feels you’re speaking their language. The toddler then feels understood, and cooperative. He is Dr. Harvey Karp – the DVD is The Happiest Toddler on the Block.

Among other things he teaches mirroring of facial expressions, body language and sounds. His basic tenet is don’t talk to toddlers like they’re little adults because they’re not; their language skills are far more primal. You have to literally get down to their level. He also has another one, The Happiest Baby on the Block which I have not yet reviewed.

The results looked startlingly effective to ward off and/or stop tantrums. His website is www.thehappiestbaby.com. I can tell you one thing for sure. When my kids present me with grandchildren, this will be one of the first gifts I give them.

By now we all know that Jennifer Hudson’s mother and brother were recently murdered. The media, noting that there is a male suspect, reports a history of “domestic issues”.

That phrase, or its twin “domestic dispute” is a terribly insidious euphemism. It suggests an issue or dispute over who left the socks on the floor or disagreements over household operations. When you hear it often enough in the news, the real meaning becomes so diluted that its impact upon society becomes diluted.

For purposes of my post this morning, let me give you the exact definition I found at good old dictionary.com:

euphemism – the substitution of a mild, indirect, or vague expression for one thought to be offensive, harsh, or blunt.

Of course domestic violence is what’s really being substituted here. Bland domestic disputes don’t result in a woman calling the police for help. Bland domestic disputes don’t invoke public outrage or action. I worked for two years in an agency for battered women. Speaking from first hand experience, here are what “domestic disputes” and “domestic issues” look like. And yes, these images are offensive, harsh, and blunt. Just like the domestic violence that was committed against women such as these.

One out of every four women is assaulted by an intimate partner every day. We need more public awareness, education, advocacy and funds to help a cause much closer to home than we might think. Domestic violence crosses all socioeconomic lines. It could happen to you, your sister, your mother, your daughter. It’s about time the legal system stopped protecting the public from offensive, harsh reality and started protecting the victims of the offensive, harsh reality.

Oh, what a wedding it was! Everything and more than we’d dreamed of since she was five, when I caught her in our yard literally kissing frogs because, “I have to find my prince, Mommy.” She apparently squeezed one frog so ardently that she frantically presented it to me because she…well….she couldn’t wake it up.

I raised my princess to be strong, assertive, and independent. She did not need Prince Charming to save her or rescue her, but she did find a Prince Charming who is fairy tale handsome, protective, nurturing, kind, strong, gentle, and generous. (And yes, also an alpha male!)

Oh, what beautiful babies they will make!

They’re twenty eight, have been together for seven years, and lived together for the past two. So her new husband already felt like family, it seemed to me. Yet witnessing for them as they signed their marriage license, and watching them go through the ritual in the church, somehow made me love him differently. Because now he IS family. He will be the father of my grandchildren. He will take care of me when I’m old, if I should need it. He’s that kind of man, a good man. And so is his family. Our tiny family, long since dwindled from what it once was, has somehow been blessed with in-laws who have already absorbed us into their tribe. We have long yearned for this void to be filled.

They looked gorgeous. They looked madly in love, even after all this time. They never left each other’s side but ate and danced and laughed the night away. Their song was “I Could Not Ask for More” by Ed McCain. But I found this one on YouTube sung by a female vocalist, with video clips from The Notebook, my daughter’s and my all time favorite romantic movie. The lovers here remind me of my new newlyweds:

Chronic illness can have an effect on even the strongest relationships…So Alph and I are going through some tough times right now…causing me to be too depressed to write…anyway, thanks for still checking in and I will be back soon I hope….

Too often, as adults, we forget to say three little words that mean so much to our partners. No, not the obvious ones.

I mean “I’m proud of you.” For some reason, we forget to say that, almost as if its a given to our partner. It isn’t. Trust me. Try saying it. Please be sure you have a particular example in mind because its absolutely certain he or she will ask, “Why???”.

Then when you say it, watch the subtle change of facial expression. You will see that you have given a powerfully tender gift to the person you love.

Live Science reports that female chimps often cry out during sex (better known to scientists as “copulation calling”) to attract nearby males, but they keep quiet when other females are around so they don’t alert their competition, a new study finds.

The hypothesis has long been that the females advertise their sexually receptive state in this way in order to attract potential mates, apparently to have them fight over the female and ensure mating with the strongest male in the group and have the strongest offspring. (Here we go with the alpha male thing again….)

Instead, female chimpanzees seem to use the copulation calls strategically to enlist the future protective support of males against aggressive group members, especially other females. The females produced more calls when high-ranking males were around, but kept quiet during their mating when high-ranking females were nearby.

“The female chimps we observed in the wild seemed to be much more concerned with having sex with many different males, without other females finding out about it, than causing male chimps to fight over them,” the one of the researchers, Simon Townsend, says.

He states that this strategy might minimize the risks of competition, because competition between females can be dangerously high in wild chimpanzees.

He actually thinks that because females make the calls not only during their fertile period, but also when they’re not in the mood (uh..excuse me, I mean sexually receptive) when they are most likely to conceive, they are acting something like the chimp equivalent of gold diggers.

“Copulation calling therefore may be one potential strategy employed by female chimpanzees to advertise their receptivity to high-ranked males, confuse paternity, and secure future support from these socially important individuals,” Townsend said.

So is he calling female chimps promiscuous manipulators? No wonder our poor chimp couple looks so miserable. We now know that the male is painfully and rightfully insecure, but as for her…well… check out her expression… Its like: get over it.. I am who I am.. girls will be girls…

The findings were published on June 18 in the online journal PLoS ONE. The study was funded by the BiotechnologAy and Biological Sciences Research Council of the United Kingdom, an EU Pathfinder grant

SUICIDE HOTLINE: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

Disclaimer: This site is a creative outlet for the author and is not intended for individual, professional advice. The author can take no responsibility for people in crisis. If you need immediate help, please call the suicide hotline
1-800-273-TALK (8255), call 911, or go to your nearest hospital emergency room.